


No Regerts, Or, Five Times Greg Didn't Get A Tattoo, and One Time He Did.

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Backstory, Lestrade-centric, M/M, POV Greg, Sneaky Sherlock, Tattoos, pretend the NHS doesn't exist okay thanks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 09:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13498984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: It's just never seemed to work out, Greg and tattoos. Until one day, it does.





	No Regerts, Or, Five Times Greg Didn't Get A Tattoo, and One Time He Did.

**1981**

Greg was 18 years and one day. He’d planned this day for months. Saved money from his crappy job at the butcher, hoping he’d have enough by the time July 1 came around. Monday was his birthday, bringing the usual indifference from his father (“Same as any other day, boy. Get me a beer, will ya?”) and tears from his mother (“All grown up now, my Greg!”). A cake, homemade and twice as good for it; the odd feeling of leaving something behind that he couldn’t return to. Tuesday he’d begged off sick, knowing his boss would expect he’d gone out and got himself drunk the night before; that was what all the local boys did the second they were old enough to buy it for themselves. Staggering home after half a dozen beers downed defiantly in the park, vomited soon enough into the street along with whatever remained of their childhood.

“Whatever, Lestrade. But I want you in tomorrow, no excuses or you’re out!” Bones was a fair enough boss, earning his nickname not from his job but the side work of bone setting; everyone knew that doctors charged a fortune, and who had that kind of money? Bones did a good enough job and for half the price, especially when doctors might ask awkward questions about awkward injuries that may or may not have been earned in a brawl. Greg had avoided brawling, not because he didn’t trust Bones – the man was skilled enough – but for the simple reason he used no anaesthetic. Greg had had the grim task of holding down enough screaming patients to know it was something he never wanted to experience. So he took the challenges and jeers of his peers on the chin; it didn’t take long for them to learn that Lestrade didn’t rise to the bait. It was a skill that would help define him as an officer of the law, many moons from now.

But this day, a sweltering Tuesday in July, Greg sat on a bus, one let jiggling impatiently as he watched grey street melt into grey street. The heat was oppressive, and he wondered if sweat would sting in the wound. Either way, he was doing this. The banknotes in his wallet and carefully wrapped sheet of card on his lap were marks of his determination. He need not open the parcel to see the design in his mind’s eye; the ripped Union Jack, banner proclaiming ‘ANARCHY IN THE UK’, safety pins artfully holding the flag in place. It was perfect, and he knew, with the arrogant certainty of youth, that he would never regret it.

+++

“Are you kidding? No way I’m putting that on you, kid!”

“What? It’s my bloody arm!”

The tattoo artist, inked covered from wrist to neck, shook his head. “No way. None of that punk rock shit.” He stabbed his finger at a fluttering shred of Union Jack. “Look what you’ve done to the flag. No respect!” Greg thought that was a rich bloody attitude for a guy with naked women up his arm, but he was desperate now. If he didn’t do it here, there wouldn’t be another chance for months. He was an adult, dammit!

“Fine! Change the flag, make it square or whatever. Just do the rest, will you?”

The huge guy grinned smugly at him. “Nup. If you’re enough of a tosser to want that, I’m not gonna put anything on ya, lad.” He had the upper hand and he knew it.

Greg flipped him the bird as he left.

He flipped it right back, bored.

 

**1983**

Thommo had been the original artist for Greg’s failed tattoo. They’d been mates since nursery; kicking a football around from the time they could walk.

Thommo was more into the punk scene than Greg. He was more anarchic than Greg; easily riled up, less likely to listen to the rules, unless he wanted to know what they were so he could be sure to break them.

They were chalk and cheese, everyone said. So when Thommo designed the two of them tattoos – Greg’s chalk, his cheese – who was Greg to argue? He was making proper money now, or would be soon; it was a matter of weeks until he started at the police academy. A link to Thommo, who he’d inevitably see a lot less now, seemed like a good idea.

It wasn’t.

Three days before the tattoo appointment, Greg received a pile of paperwork to fill in. It included a long sheet of prohibited items and behaviours, cautioning new recruits that breaking the rules would have them out on their ear before they could blink. That was how Greg interpreted it, anyway. Tattoos were forbidden if they were ‘visible while the recruit is dressed in full uniform, including the short sleeve of an approved summer uniform.’

Two days before the tattoo appointment, Greg was still agonising over the decision. If he did get it on his shoulder as they’d planned, he’d be risking it being visible through the light cotton of his police shirt. The placement was almost as important as the image itself – the traditional apology between them was allowing the other to punch him as hard as possible in the shoulder. But Greg knew the police academy was his ticket out. Out of the dead end butcher job. Out of the reach of his father, who never beat him but didn’t offer him affection or encouragement either. A way to earn a living in the city, a good living, with respect and a decent pension at the end, if he kept his nose clean. Despite his appreciation of punk music Greg had long ago accepted that he was not an anarchist at heart. He believed in the law, in doing the right thing by people and helping them. This decision would either alienate his best mate or jeopardise his future.

The day before the tattoo appointment, Greg still hadn’t decided. He wanted to talk about it with Susan, his girlfriend, but she was visiting her grandmother. On impulse he walked down to James’ place. James and Thommo were cousins, but James was a good mate too, and Greg though he’d give him a fair opinion. Over the fence, through the kitchen; nobody knocked at the door of their mate’s places. Their mums had resigned themselves to a range of young men coming and going at all hours. That was the lot of those who’d raised the original punk rock generation. James’ mum was out, but The Clash was blaring from James’ room, so Greg headed up.

James was nowhere in sight, but the room was not empty.

Thommo was in, as it happened.

So was Susan.

In fact, Thommo was in Susan at that exact moment.

Years later Greg would realise it was weed he’d smelled; the sickly sweet smell was foreign at the time. He blinked at the scene, realised neither of them had seen him, and walked out again.

Later, when Thommo came around, Greg punched him in the face without a word. He didn’t punch Susan, but it was a close thing.

The day of the tattoo appointment, neither Greg nor Thommo showed up. The tattoo artist was annoyed, but what could he do? Bloody kids.

 

**1986**

“Mate, if West Ham reaches the final I’ll get their crest tattooed on my arse!”

There were few words regretted so much as those by a moderately drunk man. West Ham was doing pretty well that season; it was quite possible they’d make the final. Lestrade was not optimistic, though. Their record at home had been good but away, they were pretty hit and miss. He just didn’t think it would be enough to get them through.

Brownell smirked. He and Greg were partners, beat cops on the same patch of London. They’d been through the academy together and lucked in enough to be working together now. Brownell was a good enough mate; quick with a laugh, and Greg could trust him to have his back out there. He sensed they’d take separate paths sooner rather than later. Brownell enjoyed the beat cop work, knowing the people, the lack of responsibility, if he was honest with Greg (and he was after a few pints). Greg had his eye on the Sergeants’ exam coming up in a few months. He’d been studying, after biting the bullet and asking his supervisor if she thought he should try it.

“Lestrade,” she said, looking at him with the same expression she used on newbies asking if they really needed to take all their equipment out with them, “If you don’t sit the exam, I’ll kick your arse myself.” He’d grinned at that and made sure to get hold of the exam dates that day. He wanted more than this. He didn’t mind it now, but twenty years from now with old knees and a back that was never quite right, he’d want a desk. When he’d had a few pints of his own Greg admitted he wanted more responsibility, more serious work than catching petty thieves and deterring hooligans from defacing brick walls.

In one thing particularly, Brownell and Lestrade saw eye to eye, and that was football. Born and raised on opposite sides of Upton Park, they were both passionate West Ham United fans. It made for easy conversation when things were quiet and when they had a quiet beer after work (which was almost every shift, a fact that sat uneasily with Greg). But on this point, they sat on opposite sides of the fence.

Brownell was convinced they’d make the final.

Lestrade was not.

He wasn’t willing to state exactly where they’d fall, but he would be surprised if it was as far as the fourth round of the FA Cup. Despite his certainty, it was an anxious wait as the season wore on. The stakes were high. Brownell started to wear on him, bringing up the bet every time West Ham won a game. Greg began to use his studying as an excuse to avoid drinks after work; in truth, he’d noticed he was drinking a lot more, and the last thing he wanted was to end up like his dad. Not that he’d spoken to the man since he’d entered the academy. Still the bitter, broken man unable to make it through breakfast without a beer, crossed Greg’s mind often.

He wanted better. Wanted to _be_ better. Worried he wouldn’t be.

So Greg studied, and humoured Brownell, and hoped like hell West Ham would fail, for the first time in his life. He felt relieved, then guilty, then more relieved when they went down to Sheffield Wednesday two days before his exam. He commiserated with Brownell for a couple of pints then begged off a late night bender.

Dodged that bullet, he thought. With any luck, he’d make it to Sergeant and begin his climb up the ladder to somewhere a little more responsible.

 

**1995**

It had been a rough year, as far as things went. Greg had applied twice to sit the Inspector’s exam, only to be turned down. Budget cuts, they said. He was a good Sergeant, he knew he was; he had the years under his belt now and he wanted his chance. Greg knew the Inspector’s handbook backwards, his marksmanship was good enough, his service record impeccable. He even had a commendation for rescuing those kids from that burning car.

“Greg?” Laura’s voice came from the kitchen. He sighed, taking an extra few seconds before getting up to go to her. She hated when he shouted through the flat. It was only four rooms, a tiny place, why did he need to get up when she could hear him perfectly well? Another good reason he wanted that promotion. They could look for somewhere a bit bigger, maybe start the family they’d been putting off because of money. Right now, he just wanted to find a football match and while the afternoon away without an argument. Another one, anyway.

Greg was still thinking about this when he walked into the kitchen to see Laura holding the phone out to him. He took it from her, asking with raised eyebrows but she had turned away already. Still angry he’d missed dinner last night, then. Great.

“Lestrade,” he answered automatically.

“Greg?” the voice was wavery but unmistakable.

“Mum?” he asked. It had been a long time since they’d spoken – years, now.

“Oh Greg,” the voice said, cracking on his name. A cold, heavy coil had settled in Greg’s gut. He knew that tone of voice. Had heard it at crime scenes, when people called what was left of their families to break their hearts. In his own voice, when the grim task had been his.

“It’s Dad, isn’t it.” His voice was flat, professional. It was easier to remove himself from this, just as he’d removed himself all those years ago, running off to the city. Now that he was here, there was nowhere left to run. No-one left to run from.

“He’s gone.” The words confirmed what Greg already knew, but he still felt his heart rent at the pain in her voice. For all her husband’s faults, she had loved him for most of her life – for all of Greg’s – and he was gone.

“Have you called Cindy?” Greg asked. His sister lived in the same street as her parents. She’d not had the same ambition to leave. His first nephew had been born while he was still at the academy, before Cindy had even finished school.

“She’s here. Greg…” he knew what she was going to ask, even before she found the words. It had been a question he’d asked himself a dozen times over the years.

“I’ll be there, mum.” The words fell from his mouth before he could think. Always, he see-sawed between going (it was his father) and not going (he was an arsehole). Now, the answer was clear. It wasn’t about Greg, or his father. His mother needed him there, so he would go. He had her put Cindy on, got the details of the funeral, started thinking about taking leave, staying perhaps with his mum the night before, or after (maybe both?). When they were done, Greg turned to Laura.

“That was mum,” he told her. She’d only met his parents twice – one excruciating afternoon when they’d wanted to meet the woman he intended to marry, and at the wedding.

“Right,” came the terse reply.

“My dad died,” Greg told her, the words making it more real. Fuck, he thought. This would be one of those things he always remembered. Laura was cutting carrots. Did he even like carrots?

“And I suppose you’ll want me at the funeral.” Laura’s voice cut through the shock. Blankly, Greg ignored her in favour of pulling down the Scotch. His hand shook as he poured it into the cut glass.

“It’s my dad’s funeral. You’re my wife,” Greg said calmly, leaning back on the bench. He drank a mouthful of Scotch, savouring the burn in his otherwise numb body. Crossing his arms he added, “Yes. I do want you at the funeral.”

She had not stopped with the carrots since he hung up the phone. The constant thunk of the heavy knife against the board, coupled with her silence, was grating on his nerves.

“It’s on Thursday,” he said into the silence. “I’m going to stay at mum’s place on Wednesday and Thursday.” Another pause, another carrot. How many carrots did she need? Were they having people over he didn’t know about?

“I’ll come down on Thursday, for the funeral,” Laura said finally, voice muffled. She hadn’t even turned around. Jesus, was he less important than the carrots?

“It would be good if you could stay, at least one night,” Greg said. Another slug of Scotch. Another carrot. He hated the pleading tone in his voice. He hated that she made him plead.

“I have work, Greg.”

“It’s less than an hour on the train, Laura. You could stay, take the train in Friday morning.”

“I’m not taking a train into the city in rush hour, Greg. I’ll make my own arrangements. Just let me know the time and the address and I’ll be there.”

“Is this because you’re still pissed…”

“This is because I have a job, Greg, and I can’t go gallivanting off with you every time you need to hold my hand over something.”

Greg blinked. He drank the rest of his Scotch, and he walked out of the flat without a word.

Ten minutes later he was in a pub, drinking.

Two hours later he was leaving the pub, escorted by a rather large bloke with no sense of humour.

Ten minutes later he was sitting in a chair – a funny chair – scrolling through his phone, wondering why the screen was so fuzzy. The nice man with all the tattoos offered to help him, taking his phone while Greg rested his eyes.

Two hours later Greg was vomiting, vowing never to drink again. Laura had barely spoken after she’d picked him up, apologising to the tattoo artist and smacking Greg around the head to wake him. From what he could gather, he’d fallen asleep in the tattooists’ chair while trying to find a picture of the Lestrade family crest. The bloke had tried calling _‘ICE Laura Lestrade’_ but she hadn’t answered, so he’d let Greg sleep it off a bit, waiting for Laura to call back.

As he wiped his mouth, Greg wondered if she would consider this a separate argument. It was getting so that he didn’t even know when one ended and the next began anymore. Putting that to the side, he wondered if he should make it back to bed or just stay here. Staying won when the room started spinning.

Before he passed out again, tiles cool on his flushed face, Greg sent a silent thank you out to the tattoo artist who’d refused to ink him. What a mistake that would have been. He was giving up on tattoos.

 

**2011**

“It’s your birthday, mate. Gotta have a party.”

“John, it’s not a proper birthday. You know what I mean, it’s not a big one or anything.” Greg cringed at the thought of a party. It was very much not his style. Especially now.

“Just a few friends, mate. Not a party, really.” John was obviously regretting using the P-word. Greg knew his friend was trying to help – had been ever since they met. Especially since Sherlock deduced (again) Laura’s infidelity (again) and Greg had finally told her to pack her bags for good this time. So now he was a lonely old man, grey and on his way to bitter. Add quite a lot of beer and he’d be his father. God, no. He couldn’t let himself sink that low. John was still talking, and Greg felt a sudden rush of affection for the man. He was trying to help, and Greg was being a dick.

“Yeah, alright mate. Just no hats, okay?” Greg grinned at John. He really did need to be more appreciative.

+++

Two weeks later, Greg was regretting his decision. The ‘quiet few friends’ was definitely a party. And there were hats, and far too much good quality booze. By the time the cake had been cut and most of the rabble had cleared out, Greg had sampled several Scotch blends and was feeling soft and happy. He looked over at John. They were the last two standing, apart from Sherlock, who had lain down behind the sofa several hours ago. “Truth or dare, mate.”

John blinked. He’d matched Greg most of the night, drink for drink. “Truth or dare?”

“Yep.” Greg popped the ‘p’ like Sherlock did. It was much funnier when he did it. Sherlock thought he was cool, but Greg really _was_ cool.

John considered. “Truth.”

Greg stared, thinking slowly through all the things he wanted to know about John. “Have you actually ever killed anyone?”

“That’s your question?” John giggled, a high pitched sound that only appeared when he was very drunk indeed. “You could ask me anything, and that’s it?” He sighed, the sudden gravitas of the very drunk person. “Yes.” With the same suddenness, the humour returned. “Your turn. Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

John pointed at him. “There was someone here tonight you wanted to shag.” Greg blinked at him, neither confirming nor denying it. “You’re wearing the shirt and the aftershave and the shoes. Your shagging shoes!” John delighted in the alliteration for a moment. “Who is it.”

“No way.” Greg shifted. “Change my mind. Dare.”

“Aww, you’re so boooooooring,” John moaned, dropping his head back on the sofa. “I’m no good at deciding on dares.” With a burst of uncoordinated energy he rolled over the sofa, flailing arms and legs until he disappeared over the back with a thump. Greg heard an ‘oof!’, then two voices. It took him almost as long to remember Sherlock was asleep there as it did John and Sherlock to stand up, albeit clutching each other.

“Hi, Sherlock,” said Greg. The brunet blinked at him for a moment before turning to John and whispering in his ear. As John collapsed into giggles again, Sherlock turned and slowly navigated himself to his bedroom, barely bumping any walls. Greg was kind of impressed.

“So Sherlock’s choosing the dare, then?” said Greg, when John finally pulled himself together.

John took one look at him and fell into giggles yet again.

Greg sighed. There was no way this could end well.

+++

Three days later, Greg was at a crime scene. Sherlock had come immediately, which was a surprise; Greg hadn’t even needed to convince him it was tricky. The way he stood around smirking at Greg made it clear he remembered the party, specifically the end part. He kept looking at Greg, and Greg’s lower back prickled as though Sherlock’s very gaze made it through his clothes.

“If it’s too difficult, I can ask Anderson to take a look,” offered Greg finally. Sherlock’s annoyed glance told Greg he knew what he was doing, but it didn’t stop Sherlock spouting all the details needed to start the case rolling.

As he stood at the coffee van, mentally reviewing everything they’d done so far, a familiar figure appeared beside Greg.

“Mycroft? What’re you doing here?”

“You’d have to ask my brother,” Mycroft replied. “How was your birthday evening, Detective Inspector?”

“Yeah, it was a good night,” said Greg, turning his face away. He knew the flush would give away something, and Mycroft was sharp enough to deduce why.

“I did send my regrets,” Mycroft said, a little awkwardly. “I trust my brother passed them on?”

Greg snorted. “Of course not.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Didn’t even know you were invited, actually,” Greg didn’t feel he needed to mention how disappointed he’d been not to see Mycroft that night. He hadn’t known if he’d be invited, but a man could hope. Hence the shagging shoes, as John had so charmingly put it.

Mycroft was frowning. “I do hope-” but whatever he hoped was lost as Sherlock sauntered up to them.

“I hear you have delved into the world of body art, Graham?”

Greg scowled at him. “None of your business, Sherlock.”

“Do keep it clean, won’t you? Hate for the delicate script to blow out and become unreadable.” He strolled off, smug smile plastered across his face.

“Delicate script, Detective Inspector?”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Greg told him with a weak smile. He could see Mycroft trying to work it out, and like the trained police officer and grown man he was, Greg bolted.

+++

There was no proof the confrontation was Sherlock’s fault, and yet Greg would continue to blame him for it.

“What do you mean, he wants proof?” Greg yelped. He didn’t want to admit to the yelp, but what other word was there for the high pitched noise that just came out of his mouth?

He heard John sigh. “He doesn’t believe you’ve really gone and done it. Says if you don’t come over this afternoon and show him, he’ll stop coming to crime scenes.”

Greg snorted. “Is that supposed to be incentive?” Even as he said the words he knew it was meant to – and it was. His clearance rate would sink back to where it should be without Sherlock, but more importantly, the scumbags he endlessly chased across London would have more chance of going free. He sighed. “Fine. Tonight after work. And not a word, John. Not a single word, or I will take him up on his offer of absence from Scotland Yard.” He paused a second then added, “You hear that, Sherlock?”

Without waiting for an answer, Greg ended the call, swore to himself, and wondered how drunk he could get between work and Baker Street without getting arrested. Not enough. There would never be enough.

+++

At 6.08pm that evening, Greg nodded grimly to Mrs. Hudson as she let him in, then marched up the stairs to John and Sherlock’s flat. He was so intent on scowling at Sherlock he barely glanced around, eyes fixed on the smug looking detective, lounging indolently against John’s chair. Greg stopped in front of him, glared once, then turned around, hiked up his shirt and tugged down the back of his trousers.

“See?” he barked. When he’d judged Sherlock had had plenty of time to gawk at his newly decorated lower back, Greg turned to leave without looking again at Sherlock. How would he ever again look at Sherlock? Christ, his life was a mess.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Greg froze, two steps from freedom. That was not Sherlock’s voice. Or John’s.

“Mycroft.” The name fell from his mouth without inflection.

“I was not certain why my brother insisted on my appearance this evening. After your revelation, I now see his reasons, dishonourable as they may be.” Mycroft paused, and Greg screwed up his courage to turn and face him. Mycroft cleared his throat, looking as uncomfortable as Greg had ever seen him. “May I ask when – and why – you chose to have my signature inscribed on your lower back?”

Greg closed his eyes in mortification. The slim chance to which he’d clung had come to nothing. Mycroft had seen it, had known what it was. Of course he would, it was his own bloody signature, wasn’t it? This was all part of Sherlock’s twisted little scheme to…well, Greg didn’t know what the purpose of his scheme was, but ‘embarrassing Greg’ seemed to be somewhere at the top of the list.

“Lost a game of Truth or Dare with John,” Greg explained in as few words as he could get away with. He just hoped Mycroft would leave it there.

“I see.” The blessedly short answer was enough for Greg to consider leaving again, until Mycroft spoke. “Forgive me for prying, but I seem to have a vested interest. Why is it my signature? Surely a symbol of feminine beauty would have been far more suited to embarrassing you.”

Greg stopped again. Maybe if he closed his eyes forever, he would never have to see Mycroft’s horrified expression. The man was brilliant but untouchable, and Greg was about to stamp all over the carefully constructed respect they’d cultivated over the years. He turned back to Mycroft, blinking slowly before fixing his gaze on the teapot in lieu of Mycroft.

“I lost the bet with John, but Sherlock determined the forfeit.”

“So he decided on the signature. My signature.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft blinked. “Why would he…I don’t understand.”

“Because he’d obviously planned ahead to this conversation, where he knew you’d ask and I have to tell you that I’ve fancied you for years and he figured it out and is clearly sick of waiting for me to make a move which I had no plans of doing because you don’t do that kind of thing and I didn’t want to stop seeing you but it always gets awkward when one person is more into it than the other.” Greg stopped for breath, refusing to review what he’d just said. Mycroft was smart, he’d figure it out.

It felt like forever, the two of them standing together, Mycroft’s eyes on Greg, Greg’s firmly on the teapot.

“While I understand in theory,” Mycroft said carefully, “I’m not sure I…understand.” He stepped hesitantly closer to Greg. “You fancy me?”

Greg shook his head in frustration that he’d been forced into the admission. They would have been okay, just colleagues, kind of mates but not the drinking at the pub kind (which was fine, he needed to distance himself from all that). But Sherlock had to butt in…

“You don’t fancy me.” Mycroft had misread the head shaking.

Greg pulled his eyes from the teapot to Mycroft. “No, wait.” He stopped, his breath caught in his throat. Mycroft was dressed as he always was, but the expression on his face was far more complicated than Greg was used to seeing. He studied it for a moment. Confusion. The tiny frown, the teeth worrying at the inside of his lower lip. He was uncertain. Well, that was new.

“I do,” Greg assured him carefully, watching Mycroft’s reaction. “Have done for a long time. I was married there for a bit, if that helps. But mainly…” he took a deep breath. Talking about this shit was never easy. “I got the impression you weren’t interested. In anyone. Which was fine, still is.” He huffed out an attempt at a laugh. “This is all Sherlock, thinking we’re better off with it out in the open or something.” He let the smile fade, adding seriously, “If you want to forget this ever happened, we can. We can go back to what we were and I’ll never mention it again.”

The confusion was still there, though less now. Greg wondered what he’d not been clear about.

“I understand the situation,” Mycroft replied, and Greg was astonished to see a flush rise in his cheeks, “with the exception of one detail.”

“Yeah?” Greg asked. His heart, already optimistically elevated, started pounding faster as Mycroft stepped in again, bringing them within touching distance.

“Me?” Mycroft asked, and the confusion was there in his voice. He was playing with the ring he wore, a long subdued nervous habit. “Of all the people with whom you associate, you chose…”

Finally, Greg understood, and his heart soared. “You,” he said softly, stepping in closer, narrowing the gap even further. The blinking of a gently astonished minor Government official was a rare sight indeed, especially from so close. Greg reached for his hand, stilling the long fingers, sliding his own between them instead. “Is that okay?” he asked carefully, not wanting to misinterpret Mycroft’s silence. For all he knew it could be calculating the precise angle at which to remove Greg’s tattoo with a breadknife. Better to be safe.

“Very much so,” Mycroft replied, his voice almost a whisper. “I suspect Sherlock has made parallel deductions about the two of us, Gregory.”

Greg’s eyes crinkled with the turn of his mouth, then dropped to Mycroft’s lips. He leaned in, free hand clenching into a fist as he made himself move slowly, giving Mycroft the opportunity to protest or defer. The tension was almost unbearable when finally, _finally_ , he felt the soft warmth of Mycroft’s mouth meeting his. Mycroft responded immediately, one hand winding around Greg’s neck, pulling him close enough to feel his body trembling as their lips pressed hard together. Greg released his fist, sliding his hand around Mycroft’s waist and angling his head to deepen the kiss, an action Mycroft thoroughly approved of. It was a jumble of warm breath, slightly frantic noises, slick lips and tongues, and it was perfect.

“Out!”

The voice was loud and sounded as if the person might be physically ill. Greg jumped, arm gripping protectively around Mycroft as he looked for the source. Sherlock stood at his bedroom door, John grinning from behind him. “Get out of my flat if you intend to do,” Sherlock waved his hand, a look of disgust on his face, “that.”

“Oh we intend to do much more than,” Greg waved his own hand around, “this.” He grinned at Mycroft, who was managing to look amused and mortified at the same time. “Aren’t we, gorgeous?”

Smirking at Sherlock, Greg released Mycroft’s waist, tugging him by the hand towards the door. Just one little parting shot for the perfect exit…“You should try it, Sherlock. I’m sure John would be amenable!”

As they stumbled down the stairs, Mycroft having lost the mortified and now combining amused and flustered, Greg asked him, “I assume you have a car around here somewhere?”

Mycroft nodded, and they turned up Baker Street to find the town car waiting. Once they were settled inside, Greg stopped to look at Mycroft for the first time since their kiss. “You okay, gorgeous?”

Mycroft flushed. “Certainly.” He hesitated. “Will I drop you at your flat, or…”

“Are you asking me up for coffee, Mr. Holmes?” Greg grinned.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. Greg hoped he understood the social construct around ‘asking someone up for coffee.’

“I must ask, Gregory,” Mycroft said suddenly. “Where did you find such a detailed fake tattoo?”

Greg grinned at him. He’d have been disappointed if Mycroft hadn’t figured it out. “A mate runs an online company. Did me a deal. How did you know?”

“The skin is not reddened, there is no sign of the healing that would usually be present in a tattoo three days old, and you showed no discomfort at the pressure of your waistband on the area.”

Greg stared at him. “Mycroft Holmes, do you have a tattoo?”

“Of course not Gregory. Many of my colleagues, however, do, and I have been unfortunately privy to the intimate details of tattoo healing while undercover.” His nose wrinkled with distaste.

“So you’re glad this isn’t real, then.” Greg asked. He couldn’t believe how well the evening had turned out. And he hadn’t even needed to get a real tattoo, in the end.

“I wouldn’t say that, Gregory,” Mycroft purred, turning to him. “Tattoos are such a personal decision. Surely each one tells a story?”

Greg shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any.”

“None?” Mycroft looked surprised.

“Oh, there are stories,” Greg grinned at him, “but I’m not going to tell you now.”

He had plans. Decidedly-not-coffee plans that would hopefully be another story to tell.

Or not tell.

 

**2017**

“Are you sure about this, gorgeous?”

“Of course, Gregory.”

“It will be there forever, you know.”

“Thank you, I am aware.”

Greg paused. “I mean, even if you find another greying management type, what are the chances his name will be Greg?”

“Gregory. You are not greying. You are silver, it is distinguished, and it suits you. You are not a ‘management type’, you are a Superintendent of New Scotland Yard.” He smiled fondly at his new husband. “And I would never find another. I would never look because I have you.” Mycroft held up his hand, bearing the ring that still flashed shiny and new on his left hand.

“Okay then.” Greg paused. “Matching tattoos, then.”

“Indeed, Gregory.”

Another silence filled their bedroom. Greg’s hand slowly stroking Mycroft’s arm made no sound at all.

"Can't wait to have your name on my skin."

Mycroft hummed in appreciation.

“Are you sure you want to get my name, though?”

“Not just your name, Gregory. Your signature.”

“My brand of ownership.”

Mycroft growled. “If you like.”

“I think it’s if you like, judging by that sound.”

“You know how possessive I am, Gregory. And I would be proud to wear your name.” He glanced at the order of service, framed on his bedside table. _Mr & Mr Holmes-Lestrade._ “I do, in fact.”

“Fine, then, you’ve worn me down.”

“Down but not out, I hope.”

“Never, Mycroft.” Greg pulled his husband over on top of him, stroking his soft lower back, imagining his own signature inked there as it would be this time tomorrow.

He wondered how they should tell Sherlock.

Now that would be a story.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were wondering:  
> Rupert Graves' birthday is June 30, 1963, so I've used that for Greg's, too.  
> [this](https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/223139356520690573/) is what Greg's first tattoo design was all about.  
> West Ham United finished third in the 1985-1986 Football League (as it was called). Sheffield Wednesday really did knock them out.  
> You can buy tattoos designed to be temporary (but more legit than those 'temporary tattoos') online.


End file.
